


tell me we weren't just friends

by daggertattoos



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, High School, High School AU, M/M, Prompt Fill, Soccer, and a little angst, like seriously SO little, theyre cute i guess, tiny bit of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:12:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7521478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daggertattoos/pseuds/daggertattoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt fill: dude we're bros and stuff but honestly i don't think i can look at you changing in the locker rooms anymore man i don't want to be your bro no more</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me we weren't just friends

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back from the dead with a 10k fic!!! I don't know if anyone still reads gallavich fics considering the current status of canon gallavich, but I hope there are still people who do! This is loosely based on that prompt I found on tumblr and I've been writing this on and off for ages and I thought it was about time I finished it. It's 2am so any mistakes are my own. Enjoy!
> 
> Title from Friends by Chase Atlantic

“Hit the showers, boys!” The coach blows his whistle to signal the end of practice, letting the sweaty teenagers rush off to the locker room to clean up and get home before it starts to rain, the sky darkening every minute.

Mickey's the first one to get in, immediately stripping his soccer uniform off and dashing to get a cubicle before the other boys started to wrestle for one. He doesn't think he could handle rolling around with sweaty muscled bodies, especially when they were half naked. That wouldn't be good for him. Another reason he took up soccer instead of football or rugby – apart from the fact that as a 10-year old, he found the idea of kicking a ball around a field awfully amusing, so much that he developed a skill for it – was that Mickey didn't have enough self-restraint when it came to that much body contact. So, he washes himself off as fast as he can, wanting to make it home before the storm hit and blocking out any thoughts of wrestling with his teammates.

“Somewhere you need to be?”

Mickey turns his head, soapy fingers running through his hair as he looks over at the head poking out of the next cubicle, the giraffe-like boy with his fiery hair and face-splitting grin. _Oh_. Gallagher, the only other Southside kid in their high school. He was here on an art scholarship, kid could draw, or paint, or something, while Mickey got in with a sports scholarship, after shooting the winning goal at a local championship game a couple of years back. They were the charity cases, as most called them, but the guys on the team came around after they watched Mickey play, and they learned to love Ian too when he showed up a year later.

Mickey isn't exactly best friends with the guy, but he nods his head when Ian says hi to him in the hallways, and he lets Ian make small talk when they end up on the same train back to the Southside, and sometimes they train together when Mickey feels like being challenged, because he's definitely a good striker, but Ian's a fucking great goalkeeper.

“In case you didn't notice,” Mickey says, turning away to finish shampooing. “It's about to fucking pour and we don't exactly live on this side of town.”

Ian simply laughs softly, replying, “Relax, Mickey. It's probably not even gonna start till, like, another hour. We'll make it.”

Mickey chooses to ignore the fact that Ian said ‘we’ as though they had plans to head back to the Southside together – they definitely didn't, Ian talked way too much for his liking – and he wraps his towel around waist, muttering a, “Not risking it, man,” before heading to the lockers for his clothes, leaving Ian in his shower and _shit_ , was Ian staring at his bare back? Unlikely.

After getting dressed, Mickey's stuffing his bag with his dirty clothes, jumping a little when he hears a loud bang on one of the lockers behind him, looking over his shoulder to see Ian standing there in all his post-shower glory, droplets of water dotting his pale skin and dripping from his slicked back hair and Mickey sees a seductive smirk on his face and if he didn't know better, Mickey would think that smirk was meant for him, but he doesn't miss the other boy sitting in between them, his eyes at level with Ian's crotch and Ian, _oh so casually_ , drops his towel, giving the boy – and everyone else, Mickey included – a free show of his junk, which was pretty fucking huge, from what Mickey could see. Not that he was looking or anything. Definitely not.

Mickey rolls his eyes, refocusing on cleaning his things up and getting the hell out of there, because he definitely didn't want to see any funny business going on with Ian and that Northside clown – Andrews? Anderson? Whatever. He was one of the assholes who didn't exactly hop on the welcome wagon when Mickey showed up and from the hostile looks he throws at Mickey every now and then, it's obvious the guy still hasn't warmed up to him. Ian, on the other hand, well, the guy fucking _worships_ Ian, follows him around like a lost puppy, probably because Ian is fucking him – everyone knows that – and apparently, Ian is a pretty great fuck. Not that Mickey would want to find out for himself. Not a chance in hell. Just the thought of it makes him want to retch.

It's not the whole ‘fucking a guy’ thing that bothers Mickey, because truth be told, he had already accepted the fact that he was into dudes long before he ended up here, and it was a nice change to know that on the Northside, being gay wasn't that much of a big deal, not that he'd like to share that piece of information with anyone other than himself – he'd rather die, really – but it was good to know that if word ever got out about his sexuality, he'd be okay. So, it's mostly the whole ‘fucking _Ian_ ’ thing that gets to him because, really, Ian? Mickey could do way better than that. Which is why he chooses to ignore the heavy breathing coming from behind him, almost positive that the two guys are dry humping each other. He's pretty sure that's against school rules, but since when has he given a shit about rules? He shakes his head to get a grip of himself, getting up to leave, but for some reason, he can't help himself, his body taking control over itself and his head turns back just a bit to glance at them and _oh_.

Ian is looking right at him. He's got that blonde kid sucking – fucking slobbering, more like – on his neck and the little shit is looking at _Mickey_ instead. Ian's eyes are dark and full of lust, and before Mickey can turn his gaze away, Ian runs his tongue over his bottom lip, slow and wet, his lips curling up in a sly smirk that makes Mickey swallow thickly. Mickey doesn't know why he's still standing there, why he's still watching, but when Ian opens his mouth in a gasp that's borderline pornographic, Mickey takes his cue to leave, spinning on his heel and walking out as quickly as he can. Once he's out in the open, he fucking runs.

•

It doesn't rain.

At least, not when Mickey is stepping onto the platform at the train station on the Southside and a strong wave of _home_ hits him. Or maybe it's the stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Same thing. While he does enjoy the security and serenity of the Northside, there's nothing more comforting than the thrill of walking along the dark Southside streets, knowing that no one even dares to look at him.

It was inevitable that he would get shit for crossing borders, he knew that as soon as he accepted the scholarship, but it didn't last long. The first couple of times they called him a – and he quotes – ‘fucking piece of shit traitor’, he let it slide, opting for a subtle glare and a flip of his finger. But when they decided to call him a ‘Northside bitch’, he couldn't help the quick slam of his fist into the first jaw he could reach, and the sharp blow of his elbow into the next gut in sight, and he thinks he must've swung his foot at more than a few kneecaps, because really, Mickey Milkovich isn't anyone's bitch. He doesn't remember much about what happened after that, but let's just say it got ugly and everyone keeps their mouths shut now. It makes him feel smug. He loves it.

What he doesn't love is the fact that in the midst of reminiscing his glory fights, he'd wasted more than a few minutes sucking on a cheap cigarette, just enough time for the sky to turn dark and the next train from the Northside to arrive. Two things come right then, two things Mickey had been hoping to avoid, but obviously, the universe isn't on his fucking side right now, or ever, really, because just as he puts out his smoke, there they are.

The rain and Ian fucking Gallagher.

“Mickey! Hey, Mick! Wait up!”

Mickey keeps walking, almost running as he lets the heavy rain drown out Ian's voice. He's not sure where he's headed because the rain is getting in his eyes, but he keeps going, determined to get away from the other boy. He jumps when he feels a large hand grip his shoulder, his blood turning cold as he realises Ian's caught up to him now. Mickey might be faster, but Ian's legs are longer and now that he's actually looking at the street, he realises this is Ian's part of the neighbourhood. Fucking fantastic.

“Jesus,” Ian breathes heavily, turning Mickey around to face him. “You gotta start taking me on those laps you always do. I can barely keep up.”

Mickey doesn't want to run laps with Ian. Mickey doesn't want to do _anything_ with Ian. But, he can't seem to say that. He can't seem to say anything. He's frozen. Like, literally. The rain is fucking soaking him and he's sure he's shivering under Ian's hand. Ian notices, shaking his shoulder a little and he says, “Hey, man, you okay? You can stay at my place first, if you want, it's right up here.”

That's when Mickey snaps out of it, shrugging off Ian's hand and he shakes his head roughly. He has to clear his throat to get his voice back, but when he does, he's quick to reply, “Nah, I'm good. I'll just make a run for it.”

Ian stares back at him, and Mickey tells himself it's not concern that's filling up Ian's eyes. “You're kidding, right? Look, I know you're fast and shit, Mickey, but I also know that your house is blocks away.”

“So what? I'll make it.”

Mickey's always been stubborn. But unfortunately for him, Ian's always been good at getting his way. Which is why not two minutes later, Mickey is being dragged into Ian's living room, the both of them looking like a couple of wet rats as water drips from their clothes and hair onto the carpet that's already stained with God knows what. Mickey's not going to admit it out loud, but it might also have to do with the fact that Ian is larger, and possibly stronger, and really fucking hot when he's taking charge and shit. Oh, _fuck_. He did not just think that.

Ian throws a thick towel at Mickey's head, snickering a little when Mickey yelps, fumbling a bit before he manages to catch the thing, shooting a glare at the guy. Mickey wraps the towel around his shoulders, trying to absorb the warmth from it as he watches Ian peel off his sopping clothes off his body, throwing it into the washer. Ian gets a towel for himself, the material barely reaching over his knees, before he pulls down his boxers and drops it in the machine as well.

Ian rolls his eyes when he looks over at Mickey, who's standing in the middle of the room, still dripping and he's never seen anyone look more out of place in his entire life.

“Look, just stay here till the rain stops, then you can fucking leave, okay? I don't give a shit,” Ian grumbles, trying not to sound harsh, but really, he's doing Mickey a favour, why can't the guy see that? When Mickey doesn't respond, he adds, “We've got a match this weekend, and I'm not gonna just stand by and watch our best striker get hypothermia because he's got a fucking ego.”

And of course, Mickey's response to that is, “Hypo- _what?_ ”

Ian sighs, but a little smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He shakes his head, muttering a, “Never mind,” before he holds his hands out to Mickey, saying, “Just.. Give me your clothes.”

“Give you my- _What?_ ” Mickey almost chokes, but he plays it cool, turning it into a scoff, his eyebrows furrowing. “Why the fuck do you want my clothes?”

“Relax, man,” Ian shoots back, gesturing at the puddle around Mickey's feet. “They're soaking wet, you're gonna catch a cold if you stay in them. Just give them to me and I'll wash them. You can wear some of my clothes in the meantime.”

Mickey's not sure what to do now. But he's really, really cold and Ian's right, he can't afford to get sick with the match coming up. So, shrugging off his towel, he reluctantly strips off his shirt, throwing the wet thing at Ian's face, as pay back for the towel earlier. But Ian catches it swiftly with a smug look on his face, and right... Ian's a keeper. Damn it. He twists the towel around his waist and embarrassingly shimmies out of his track pants, wincing at the squelching sound it makes as he steps out of them. He hands those over to Ian, refusing to throw them at him again and Ian just stares back at him patiently. When Ian doesn't take his eyes off him for a few moments too long, Mickey snaps, “The fuck, Gallagher?”

“What about your, um,” Ian pauses, rolling his lips in to stop himself from smiling. “Your boxers?”

“Oh,” is all Mickey says, and his hands tighten around the towel, suddenly aware of how naked he is. He doesn't know why it makes him feel funny, because they've both been far more bare than this around each other before, but Mickey feels his face burn when he mutters, “I, uh, I wasn't wearing any.”

Ian arches an eyebrow.

“I was heading straight home,” is Mickey's only argument and Ian seems to accept that, snorting a little as he stuffs Mickey's clothes into the washer, switching the machine on before he says, “Wait here.” Then, he disappears behind the stairs.

When Ian comes back down, he's fully clothed – thank fuck, because Mickey was starting to get distracted by Ian's abs, which wasn't really an Ian thing, he was just admiring a good body, really – and he's got a bunch of clothes tucked neatly under his arm. He holds out a shirt for Mickey, that looks way too big, and Mickey frowns.

“That'll look like a fucking dress on me, you little shit,” Mickey spits, looking up at Ian with a scowl and Ian simply cocks his head, eyes dragging down Mickey's bare body.

“You can stay in that towel, if you want,” Ian hums, a wicked little smirk on his lips. “I wouldn't mind.”

Mickey narrows his eyes at Ian. Is this guy for real? Mickey can't tell, but he shoots back a sneering look, yanking the clothes from Ian's hands with a sharp, “I'll take the dress, thanks.”

Mickey ignores Ian's gaze on him as he dresses, pulling on the large shirt over his head and he scrunches up his nose when he notices the pair of boxers on top of the sweatpants. He turns to Ian with pursed lips and the pink – fucking _pink_ – boxers bunched up in his hand, asking, “Do I have to?”

Ian simply gives him a soft shrug of his shoulders, a nonchalant tone in his voice when he answers, “Up to you. I don't mind either way.” Ian isn't surprised when Mickey tosses the boxers aside, pulling the loose pants onto his bare legs.

Mickey looks ridiculous. He knows that, Ian knows that, and he _knows_ that Ian knows. Ian knows that Mickey wouldn't be able to fit his clothes, and Lip's got a bunch of things that would suit him better, and he does have clothes that he's outgrown, but he thought it would've been a good laugh to see Mickey in his huge clothes and damn, he was right.

And he can't help it. He bursts out into laughter, almost doubling over and once he manages to calm himself, he takes another glance at Mickey practically being swallowed up by the clothes and it riles him up again. By the third time he decides to start laughing again, there's a pair of pink boxers being flung straight to his face and he'd been too caught up in his laughter to catch the thing, letting out a strangled noise as the small shorts smack him in the face. He yanks it off, gaping at Mickey, who's looking back at him with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.  
  
“You're a dick, you know?” Mickey says with a huff, dropping his ass onto the battered couch, his head still turned towards Ian to scowl at him.

Ian just says, “I know, but so are you.” And Mickey can't really argue with that, so he drops his sour look and lets his shoulders slump when Ian settles next to him, a little too close for comfort but Mickey can't bring himself to move away. He's cold, and Ian's warm. That's all it is.

And Ian doesn't say anything about the locker room. So, neither does Mickey. They stay like that, quiet and chilly, until Ian gets up to check on the clothes, and he notices that the rain is slowly stopping to a light drizzle.

“Hey, Mick, the rain's stop-”

But Mickey's already gone. Already two steps ahead of him. Already on the run.

Ian scoffs, shaking his head. Go fucking figure, Milkovich.

•

The next morning, Mickey is running laps before school starts, before anyone else begins to fill up the field. He's always preferred being on his own, the silence gives him time to think about the things that make his brain ache as much as the muscles in his calf do. And for some reason, the topic on his mind today has giraffe limbs and fiery hair. Fuck. Mickey had been watching the weather through the window the entire time he was sat with Ian, waiting until the rain was calm enough not to hurt him and when Ian decided to leave the room for a minute, Mickey took the opportunity to get the fuck out of there, unable to stand being so close to Ian. It's not that he was attracted to Ian or anything, it's just, every time he looked at the guy, all he could see was the locker room incident and shit, Mickey couldn't deal with that. So, he left.

But as soon as he got home, locking himself away in his room, he noticed the baggy clothes on his body and he felt a horrible twist in his gut. He thinks it might've been guilt. Ian had been decent enough to give him shelter and warm clothes, and yeah, Ian had offered, hadn't really expected anything in return, but Mickey should've at least said thank you.

Then, he laughs to himself, almost smacking himself in the face because when does he say thank you to anyone, for anything? It wasn't like he even asked for it, the guy fucking offered. Mickey doesn't owe him anything. Does he? No, of course not. He shakes off the thought and starts another round.

It's not until Mickey's back in the locker rooms, showered and dressed for class, that he feels that pang of guilt in his chest again. The burning feeling begins to spread through his body when he hears a throat clear behind him, causing him to turn and face the pretty redheaded boy, who's looking down at him grimly. And when Ian roughly shoves the neatly folded clothes into his chest, Mickey knows that the horrible emotion has consumed him completely and before Ian can leave, Mickey's hand shoots out and catches his forearm, ignoring the faint tingles that he feels when his palm meets Ian's bare skin.

He drops Ian's arm quickly, opting to hold the clothes closer to his chest when he says, “Look, uh, Gallagher, I- What I did yesterday, just leaving like that, that was- It was a dick move.”

“I know,” is what Ian says, after a few quiet moments. His lips are pressed into a thin line and his eyes are steely and Mickey thinks he prefers the goofy smile or the smug smirk.

Mickey swallows thickly under his heavy gaze and he can't remember feeling this intimidated by anyone for a long, long time, but there's just something oddly frightening about Ian's eyes that are a shade darker than usual and his muscly body looming over Mickey's smaller shape and the deep scowl etched onto his pink lips. It's been a long time since Mickey's been afraid of anyone, a long time since he's allowed himself to be scared of anything, really. And if there's anything Mickey loathes, it's feeling afraid, so he decides to swallow his pride and fucking fix this.

“I shouldn't have done that,” Mickey starts and he tries to ignore the not-so-subtle “No shit,” muttered under Ian's breath. He shakes his head and brings his gaze up to meet Ian's, and he says, “I'm sorry, okay?”

When Ian doesn't say anything, Mickey lets out a light scoff, a wavering smile on his face when he adds, “I know that might not mean much coming from _me_ , but I do mean it. I really am sorry.”

To his surprise, Ian offers him a smile, a genuine one that radiates warmth and Mickey visibly relaxes. Ian's voice is soft, quiet, when he speaks, “That's okay. I don't blame you. I mean, it was probably weird of me to just drag you into my house like that-”

“No, no,” Mickey interrupts, shaking his head abruptly. “It was fine, uh, I appreciate it, man. Like, letting me stay and the clothes and shit, I just- _Thank you._ ”

Ian's full-on grinning now, his teeth almost shining in the dimly lit room and he can't help the pink flush creeping up his neck because he doesn't think he's ever heard Mickey Milkovich thank anyone before. When he realises he's been standing there, blushing away like a little schoolboy, he quickly answers, “Don't worry about it, Mick. That's what friends are for, right?”

When Mickey's expression falters a little, Ian frowns and adds, “I mean, we are friends, aren't we?”

Mickey has never, not once, considered Ian his friend, simply because Mickey doesn't have ‘friends’. Sure, there's his teammates, and a couple of kids who do his homework for him, but he doesn't really have friends, and he doesn't really mind. But Ian's got an awfully hopeful glint in his eye and Mickey can't find it in him to say no, and he supposes that if anyone were to be considered his friend, Ian would come the closest. So, Mickey plasters on a winning smile and he hopes it doesn't come off as too fake when he nods his head and agrees, “'Course we are.”

The look of pure fucking joy on Ian's face right then makes Mickey wish that he wasn't completely lying when he said that they're friends, and if he's being honest, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to be friends. After all, they were the only two from the Southside, they had more things in common than Mickey did with the other guys here, so that's gotta count for something. And when he's not talking shit, Ian's pretty funny, his quick wit goes well with Mickey's sarcasm. Plus, he's a decent guy, Mickey doesn't see him as someone who would try to kill him, so that's a good thing because everyone kinda wants to kill Mickey. He's also easy on the eyes, and that's a bonus that Mickey particularly takes interest in. So, Mickey decides that _fine_ , they could be friends.

Ian clears his throat then, and Mickey realises he's been zoning out for a little while so he snaps back to reality, catching a hint of a fond smile on Ian's face. Ian just nods a goodbye and mutters, “I'll see you around, Mick.”

Before Ian can leave, Mickey grabs his arm again and _fuck_ , he's gotta stop doing that. A sheepish look crosses his face when Ian turns back to him and he mumbles a sorry as he drops Ian's arm. Ian just gives him a warm smile and an arched eyebrow. Mickey fish-mouths for a while, gaping at Ian while he tries to remember what he wanted to say and it's really fucking hard to when Ian is staring him down like that. Eventually, he manages to choke out, “How'd you know I was here?”

“You're here every morning,” Ian retorts, snorting a little as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. And the way the words roll off Ian's tongue so easily confuses Mickey even more.

“I'm here _alone_.”

Ian rolls his eyes, his lips curled a little at the right corner and he shakes his head. “You're not the only one who can wake up early, you know.”

The look on Mickey's face right then is a mixture of disbelief and confusion with a hint of embarrassment.

“Wait, so, you've been here, every morning, this entire time?” is what Mickey asks, his jaw gaping unattractively.

Ian nods, then reconsiders it, tilting his head a little. “Well, not _here_ -here. More like in the art studio on the other side of the field. I've got a clear view of your training spot from there.”

“Oh.” Mickey is quiet for a while, then he smirks dashingly, a perfectly curved eyebrow arching on his forehead. “So you've been watching me, huh Gallagher?”

“ _Observing_ , Milkovich,” Ian corrects, a thin smile on his lips and he lets out a small chuckle. “How do you think I predict all your shots?”

“You cheater!” Mickey gasps lightly, shaking his head disapprovingly at the taller boy and he mutters, “And here I was, thinking you were just that good.”

Ian rolls his eyes lazily and gives Mickey a small shove on the shoulder and Mickey thinks he catches a soft whine along the lines of “I am that good” coming from Ian so he just laughs, letting his eyes crinkle up around the corners as a bright grin splits his face. And he'll never admit it, but this is nice; the light banter, actually finding each other amusing, instead of just witty remarks and sarcastic comments. This, Mickey decides, is what being friends is about and it isn't all that bad, right?

•

 _Wrong_. Being friends is bad. It's so, so, so fucking bad and Mickey regrets ever agreeing to it. Except he doesn't. But, he does. But- _Fuck_. He can't be friends with Ian. No, that's not right. It's more like he can't be _just_ friends with Ian. And he hates himself for it.

Ever since their little meeting in the locker room that one morning, Ian began showing up on the field more often during Mickey's so-called alone time. Sometimes he'd gear up and train with Mickey, but most times, he'd just sit on the bleachers and watch him play. And to be frank, the latter was worse. It was weird enough knowing that Ian had been watching him from the art studio, but it was worse when Ian was right there, beady eyes burning into Mickey's skin, following every single movement of his body, every stretch of his legs, every curve of his waist, every point of his toes. Mickey could almost literally _feel_ Ian's eyes on him and it made training even harder than it already was. And with Ian looking at him like that, Mickey couldn't help the fact that it wasn't just the training that got hard. Is being stared at supposed to turn you on?

Of course, after one too many occasions of being ogled at, Mickey decides to shoot a snarky remark at him about it, something along the lines of, “Take a fucking picture, why don't you?”

And of fucking course, Ian has to respond with something weird like, “What, for my wank bank?”

Mickey gapes at him, his eyes wide and his mouth dry, and it's deafeningly silent for about two seconds until Ian bursts into a fit of laughter, almost doubling over at the sight of Mickey's horrified expression.

“Dude, relax,” he manages to say in between loud chuckles, trying to catch his breath, but when Mickey is still frowning, he adds, “Come on, man, I was just kidding.”

Mickey blinks at him blankly, twice, then he shakes his head with a scoff, muttering a weak, “I knew that, dumbass.” But he's not sure what stings more, the fact that Ian was kidding about the wank bank or the fact that he called Mickey ‘dude’ _and_ ‘man’ in practically the same sentence.

And Ian laughs again, giving Mickey a look that said ‘sure’ and Mickey just flips him off, turning back towards the field. As he bends over, stretching out his legs, he hears a low whistle and, “Nice view, Mick. I might take that picture after all.”

Mickey looks over his shoulder to see Ian's eyes raking over his ass shamelessly, not even bothering to be discreet. Mickey's own eyes narrow into sharp slits as he grumbles, “Fuck you, Gallagher.”

“Or maybe the other way around.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Ian quips, far too quickly as he flashes a bright grin. “See you later.” Then he's gone, disappearing into the halls of the school, and Mickey can finally breathe.

And he needs a shower. A cold, cold, cold shower.

•

Ian doesn't show up on the field one morning, even though it's pretty much been his daily routine as of late and despite Mickey's attempts to keep himself cool, he can't help but feel a little anxious as he paces across the edge of the field, keeping an eye out for Ian. He doesn't know why, but he does enjoy Ian's company. That is, when he's not being a total perv. The guy can be really funny when he wants to be, making Mickey laugh more in the past couple of weeks than he has in the entire time he's been at this school. And surprisingly, all his ‘observing’ actually amounts to something because apart from staring at Mickey's ass, he watches Mickey's movements, his kicks and his angles, and he helps Mickey get better, which in turn makes him train harder to block Mickey's shots. It's a win-win for both of them.

It's also pretty nice to have someone to talk to. Mickey usually doesn't believe in just talking, but sometimes Ian starts these little conversations when they're in the shower stalls, telling Mickey about his family and Mickey supposes the right thing to do as a friend is to listen, gravelly voice against running water. It's not too bad. And in turn, Mickey tells him about his own family, at least, the decent parts. He mostly just talks about Mandy, because his brothers were lost causes, and, “Oh! Mandy and I are friends. I guess. I haven't seen her in a while. How is she? Oh, wait- Is it weird to talk about your sister while we're in the shower?”

Mickey usually just responds with, “Shut up, Ian.”

He likes it, though. No one ever tells him stories about their lives and no one ever cares enough to listen to him talk about his life. No one except Ian. Sometimes he thinks he should do this ‘friend’ thing more often but then again he doesn't think he'd be able to tolerate anyone else. Which is why he gets antsy when Ian – _his only friend_ – still doesn't show up, so much so that he even climbs up onto the bleachers to look around, balancing elegantly on his tiptoes.

It's right then that he hears his phone beep, and he sees a new message on the screen.

_looking for me? ;-)_

Mickey types back a quick no. Too quick. What a liar.

_i can see u, ballerina_

Mickey immediately jumps off the benches, swivelling his head around to find Ian but he can't see shit.

 **where the fuck are u?**  
_guess_  
**stop fuckin around**  
_art studio, room 206, come here_  
**why?**  
_just do it_

Mickey huffs loudly, even though there's no one there to hear him and he considers his options. He could stay down here and finally get to train in his own peace and quiet like he used to, or he could go up to the art studio and hang out with Ian _again_.

**...**

**...**

**on my way**

Ian doesn't even notice him come in, too fixated on his work to hear the door creaking open and Mickey's light footsteps crossing the room. In fact, Ian's humming to himself so he probably wouldn't even notice if Mickey jumped out at him from behind. One, two, thr-

“Fuck!” Mickey is sent tumbling down to the floor as his foot gets caught on the leg of an easel, an array of paintbrushes clattering to the ground as well, the sounds echoing in the empty room.

Ian glances over his shoulder at Mickey, snorting a little as he mutters, “Smooth.” And he turns back to his art piece, completely ignoring the fact that Mickey is sprawled out on the ground, wind knocked right out of him.

Realising that Ian wasn't making any moves to help him, Mickey pushes himself up stubbornly, a deep scowl etched on his face and he plops himself down onto a stool opposite Ian.

“Gee, thanks for the help, man,” Mickey drawls out, his flat voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Dirty hands,” is all Ian replies, waving his hands in Mickey's face, covered with wet clay and Mickey pulls himself back with a grimace, not wanting to get any of it on him.

It's quiet for a moment or two, Ian too engrossed in his work to entertain Mickey, so Mickey clears his throat, squirming around in his seat, the wood hard and uncomfortable against his ass. “So, why'd you ask me to come up here?”

“Why'd you come?” Ian counters, not even bothering to look up at him.

“Well, I-” Mickey lets out a small huff, fidgeting even more and he settles for saying, “You know what, maybe I'll just leave then, since you're so busy.”

And Mickey actually gets up, the sound of his chair scraping against the floor finally catching Ian's attention and just as he turns away, Ian reaches out for his wrist, but decides against it, clay dripping from his fingers.

“Mickey, wait-”

There's a low rumble of thunder from outside, then the pitter patter of rain begins, the sky turning dark and gloomy.

Mickey turns back, reluctantly, and he sees a tight lipped smile on Ian's face as his green eyes dart between the windows and Mickey, lightning reflecting in them.

“That's why I asked you to come up,” Ian admits, sounding almost sheepish as a small chuckle escapes his lips. “I didn't want you to get caught in the rain.”

“Oh.” Mickey slowly slides himself back onto the stool, avoiding Ian's eyes. “Thanks. I guess.”

Because Mickey isn't looking, Ian lets himself smile, rolling his eyes a little at the guy because _honestly_. Ian allows himself a couple of moments to just look at him, like _really_ look at him, and he notices the way he pulls the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth, the way his eyes glance anywhere and everywhere except at Ian, the way his dark hair contrasts against his pale skin that never tans even after endless hours of being out on the field. It's a lot nicer looking at him like this, instead of a blurry shape running across a field. And Ian wonders how he'd look like even closer, with their bodies pressed up against each other, skin against skin, tongues on-

Mickey clears his throat, eyebrows raised and he asks, “Are you ever gonna stop staring at me?”

Ian's sure he doesn't actually want an answer to that, but he says, “Probably not,” just to see the guy squirm. He loves it.

When Mickey sticks his tongue out at him, Ian laughs, muttering a quiet, “Don't tempt me.” And Mickey shouldn't hear him, but he does, his face flushing and he pulls his tongue back in so quick, he almost choked on it.

“So, what the fuck is that lump of clay?” is Mickey's weak attempt to change the subject, his eyes landing on the brown mess in front of Ian.

“Well, thanks,” Ian answers flatly, looking a little defeated as he frowns over his artwork. “It's supposed to be a vase.”

Mickey bares his teeth in an awkward grin. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “It's just- Didn't you get in here on an art scholarship? Shouldn't you be, like... _good?_ ”

Ian gives him a pointed look, head tilted and lips pursed, and Mickey feels himself cringe inwardly. He shouldn't be allowed to speak. At all.

“Sorry. _Again_.”

Ian sighs, his shoulders drooping forward as his lips dissolve into a frown. “I'm a painter,” he explains, his fingers waving around a little. “I wanted to start sculpting too, but obviously...” His voice trails off, another sigh leaving his sad lips.

Mickey feels a small sense of guilt wash over him, Ian's glum expression like a punch to the gut and he doesn't even know why.

 _You know why_ , his self-conscious tells him. He almost tells it to shut the fuck up. Almost.

And before he realises what he's saying, he hears the words leave his mouth. “I think you should keep going. With the sculpting, I mean.” When Ian gives him a blank stare, he cracks a tiny smile, gesturing towards the odd piece of clay. “Come on, man, finish it. Make that fucking vase.”

Ian hesitates, but he caves in with a heavy breath, getting his hands wet again and the wheel begins to spin, his slick palms on either side of the clay. Mickey watches as he moves them up and down, slowly shaping the vase. It takes him a while, but he manages to get a decent shape and he begins to smoothen out the sides. It's all innocent enough, until he gets to the mouth of the vase, his fingers moving around the small hole, torturously slow. Mickey wasn't exactly paying attention before, but when he catches sight of Ian's fingers, he gulps a little too loudly. The way Ian traces the rim and slides his fingers in and out is borderline obscene, and it's got Mickey all flustered. And Jesus, is he _that_ sexually frustrated? He tries to ignore it, but when Ian starts to scissor his fingers, Mickey almost chokes.

_He's doing it on purpose._

“On second thought,” Mickey coughs, trying not to sound so breathless. “Maybe you should finish that another time.”

“But you said-”

“And now I'm saying something else,” Mickey cuts him off quickly, a tight smile on his lips and he hopes his face isn't burning red. “Why don't you paint instead?”

“Paint? But my hands-”

“Wash them!” Mickey snaps at him, fumbling over his words as he tries not to look at Ian's fingers – tries being the key word – and he fails miserably, sucking in another sharp breath. “I don't care, just stop doing... _that_.”

“What, this?” Ian asks innocently as he continues stroking the hole of the vase, a wide-eyed look on his baby face and Mickey wants to smack him.

“Ian, _stop_.”

“Why?“

“Just-” Mickey gives up, groaning loudly and he juts his chin out angrily. “God. I hate you.”

Ian just laughs, stopping the wheel and he tilts his head to the right, giving Mickey this beaming grin that's almost blinding really and he sounds smug when he says, matter-of-factly, “No, you don't.”

Mickey doesn't say it out loud but, _no, I don't._

•

The rain doesn't stop.

Which is why Mickey finds himself back at the Gallagher house later that afternoon, not because he wants to hang out with Ian even more, _definitely not._ He just doesn't wanna get hypo-whatever. He makes a point to tell Ian exactly that, to which Ian responds with, “Sure, Mick.”

Mickey wants to punch him.

Despite their attempts to avoid the rain, they end up getting soaked anyway and Mickey is already stripping off his wet clothes before Ian even asks, and Ian arches an eyebrow.

“Someone's eager,” he teases, taking the clothes from Mickey in exchange for a warm towel.

Mickey narrows his eyes. “What?”

Ian just shakes his head, disappearing into the kitchen and Mickey lets out a huff of air, getting tired of his constant sexual innuendos that only ever end with him pretending it didn't happen or doing something lame like giving Mickey a high-5 or calling him ‘bro’. It's frustrating and he hates it. But he doesn't hate Ian. Not at all. No, in fact, he likes Ian. _There_ , he said it. He likes Ian fucking Gallagher.

And when Ian comes back with clothes that actually fit Mickey, he might like him just a little bit more.

They sit there, quiet and cold, their shoulders just barely brushing each other's and it's somewhat calming. Breathing each other in, sharing what little warmth they had, like they were in a bubble. Their bubble. It's nice, at least Mickey thinks so. He doesn't know about Ian, though. As far as he's concerned, to Ian, they're friends. Buddies. Platonic bro-pals that stare at each other's asses and make obscene gestures to make the other sexually frustrated. He wonders if he should ask Ian about it. But what would he say? _Hey man, are we just friends or was the vase fingering supposed to mean something?_ He can't do that. But then again, it doesn't make sense. Ian doesn't even know he's gay. They've never discussed it. Or can he just tell? Could he sense it? Mickey has no clue and all this thinking is making his brain hurt and it's right then, while his head is spinning, that another thought hits him.

He turns to Ian with furrowed brows. “You knew it was gonna rain,” is all he says, slow and unsure.

Ian nods, wondering where he's going with this. “It's rainy season,” he states. “It's gonna be raining all the time.”

“Huh.” Mickey seems to think about it, his eyebrows pulling together deeper and deeper. “You knew it was gonna rain... but you didn't bring an umbrella.”

It's an odd statement, that's for sure, but Ian shrugs it off coolly, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his pink lips and he whispers, “Maybe I just wanted to see you take your clothes off.”

Mickey gulps, blood slowly creeping up his pale neck and he chokes out an awkward laugh, averting his gaze to his feet. “You're full of shit, Gallagher,” he mutters, his mind too hazy to think of any other comeback.

Ian laughs at that, loud and full and he leans back onto the couch, his arm stretching over the back and now Mickey can't sit back because he'd rather not have Ian's arm around his shoulders. He doesn't think he'd be able to handle it.

“You like me though,” Ian says with a small sigh, a knowing tilt to his voice as he looks at Mickey with shining eyes.

“No, I don't,” Mickey shoots back quickly. Too quickly.

Ian clicks his tongue, a smug little look on his face. “Yeah, you do.” Before Mickey can deny it again, he adds, “I'm your only friend, of course you like me.”

“ _Right_.” Mickey lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding, unsure whether the pang in his chest was relief or disappointment. “About that-”

“Knock knock, guess who's ho...” The voice trails off, eyes landing on Mickey. “ _Mickey Milkovich?_ ”

There goes their bubble.

Ian sits up almost immediately as Mickey lifts a hand in an awkward wave, muttering, “Hey, uh,” he pauses. “Lip, right?”

“Right,” Lip answers, his eyes narrowing just barely and he gestures between the two boys. “Do I wanna know or...”

“School,” Ian chirps at the same time that Mickey says, “Rain,” and they glance at each other, faces flushed.

“Uh, soccer-”

“His house is far-”

“Hypo-something-”

“We're just friends-”

“O- _kay_ ,” Lip interrupts, an awkward chuckle leaving his lips as he rubs his hands together, slowly backing up towards the stairs. “I'm gonna go upstairs. I'll leave you two to... Whatever.”

Then he's gone, and Ian lets out a loud breath, crashing against the back of the couch.

“ _We're just friends?_ ” Mickey echoes.

Ian turns to him, his features softening and he squeezes Mickey's shoulder saying, “Sorry, Mick. I meant _best_ friends.”

Well, _fuck_.

That felt worse than ‘just friends’ and all Mickey can do is scoff, masking himself with a roll of his eyes and a “Whatever, Gallagher.” It feels like shit.

•

Mickey shouldn't go back there. He really shouldn't. After all, he and Ian are ‘just friends’ – oh, no, just _best_ friends – and just best friends don't hang out at each other's houses that often. Or do they? Mickey wouldn't know. All he knows is being around his bro-pal Ian is making him even more stressed than he's ever been in his entire lifetime.

But it's still raining today, just like Ian said it would, and it doesn't exactly help when Ian says, “It's pizza night at our place, wanna come?”

And who is Mickey to deny free pizza?

The Gallagher clan is nice enough, almost exactly how Ian described them in all his stories and they don't think twice about sitting Mickey down in their lumpy couch and handing him a slice of pizza, just like they would their own family. Even Lip warms up to him a little, sneaking him a beer when no one's looking because athletes aren't supposed to have that kind of shit. Debbie's particularly intrigued by him, sitting on the floor right by him and she props her arms up on his knees, chin resting on them and her eyes pierce holes into his skin. _Just like her brother._

“Are you Ian's boyfriend?” she asks suddenly, and Mickey almost spits out his drink, eyes bulging out of their sockets.

“ _What?_ ”

She sighs, rolling her eyes. “I said, are you-”

Mickey shushes her quickly, his hand clamping over her mouth. “No, don't- don't say it again! Fuck, kid. We're just friends.” When he's given her enough warning glares, he lets her go and she gives him a sour look, getting up and turning away with a flick of her ginger hair.

“Don't mind him, Debs. He's a jerk to everyone,” Ian says then, his mouth half-full of pizza as he drops himself onto the couch, half of his ass landing on Mickey's lap. Mickey shoves him away — _hard_. Ian snorts, adding, “See.”

“Why are you friends with him then?” she sneers, shooting daggers at the poor guy.

“Because,” Ian leans in and drops his voice, pretending to whisper but everyone hears him anyway. “No one else wanted to be friends with him.”

That gets a giggle out of her, and Ian laughs too, shooting her a quick wink as he leans back, shoulder brushing against Mickey's.

“You suck,” Mickey tells him, glancing at the guy with narrowed eyes.

Ian's tongue drags over his bottom lip slowly, his gaze landing on Mickey's crotch, and his voice is low when he mutters, “Only if you want me to.”

Mickey gapes at him, fish-mouthing for a moment or two and he's not sure what to say, so he decides to grab a handful of fries, dumping them right on Ian's head. Ian's eyes widen, a loud gasp coming out of him and before Mickey can comprehend what's happening, there's a pizza slice smacking onto his cheek.

“ _You didn't._ ”

Ian grins wickedly, watching as the pizza slowly slides down the side of Mickey's face. “Oh, yes, I did.”

Then, Mickey's on him, tackling him to the ground as he yells, “That was a perfectly good piece of pizza, you little shit!” And Ian laughs loudly, groaning as they land in a heap on the floor, and he reaches out an arm, signalling at Debbie for help. Before he knows it, Mickey has a little girl jumping onto his back, skinny arms winding around his neck and he lets out a strangled noise, much to Ian's joy. But Lip is on his side, coming to his aid and tickling Debbie's sides until she lets Mickey go.

“Ha!” Mickey shouts excitedly, Lip pulling him up and they get about two seconds of victory before Fiona creeps up behind them, saying, “Sorry, boys!”

And so it begins, icy cold soda down Lip and Mickey's backs, more fries in Ian's hair, pizza flying across the room, kids running around and laughter echoing through the entire house. Eventually, when they're out of breath and out of food, they end up in a heap in the middle of the room, faces smeared with pizza sauce and clothes stained with soda, and when Mickey says, “I can't believe we just wasted all that pizza,” they groan at him, and he gets another slice shoved into his face.

He flings it away, flipping them off, but really, he's having the time of his life. He'll never admit it, but he likes it here. He likes the way they treat him like he's just Mickey, not Mickey Milkovich the local thug. And maybe he lets himself fall asleep on the couch, wrapped in one of Ian's too-big sweaters, because showers make him sleepy and it's too late to walk home anyway.

And eventually, one of these days, the rain stops. But it's pizza night again and Mickey _swears_ he's only there for the pizza. Too bad no one believes him.

•

Mickey thinks he can be friends with Ian. _Just_ friends. Well, he decides he has to, he forces himself to. He's been enjoying himself way too much around Ian and the rest of the Gallagher clan to throw it all away just because he wants Ian to bone him. It's a sacrifice he's willing to make. And it's not too bad, really. Ian's given up the obscene gestures for subtle winks every now and then, even a genuine compliment or two, and if Mickey didn't know better, he would've thought that Ian was flirting with him. He doesn't let himself read into it though. His mind is set. He and Ian are friends. Just friends. Bros, pals, buds. And he's okay with that.

Until Ian shows up on the field one morning in nothing but a tiny pair of shorts that barely covers _anything_.

Mickey's a fucking goner.

“Morning,” Ian chirps, far too cheerfully for this time of day and it makes Mickey's head hurt.

“Where the fuck are your clothes?” Mickey manages to choke out, hoping that he doesn't sound too breathless.

Ian gestures at his body, an eyebrow raised at Mickey as he says blankly, “These _are_ my clothes.”

“The rest of them, genius.”

Ian rolls his eyes so hard, for a moment there, Mickey's afraid they might not roll back. They do. Unfortunately. Because now Ian's giving him a look, those green eyes staring right at him and he says, “It's the first bit of sun we've seen in weeks, Mick. My skin needs it.”

Mickey waves him off with a scoff and a, “Whatever, man.” But really, he's praying on whatever lucky stars he had left to keep him from ripping those little shorts right off the guy. Jesus.

Ian crosses over to the goal post, walking with a sway in his hips that draws Mickey's eyes right to his ass. Then, as if that wasn't enough, he stretches his arms up slowly, grabbing the metal bar, the muscles rippling under his smooth skin and Mickey might be drooling.

“Hey, Milkovich!” Ian calls out, snapping Mickey out of his trance and he's got a knowing grin on his face when Mickey refocuses his gaze. “Take a fucking picture, why don't you?”

Despite himself, Mickey laughs, a grin splitting his face and he reminds himself that this is it. This is being friends and he needs it. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to go back to a time when he and Ian weren't friends. He wouldn't know what he'd do with his life. Who would he talk to in the mornings? Who would he walk home with after school? Who would he have pizza nights with? He'd be alone. He'd rather be just friends than to not be friends at all.

So there they are, just friends, playing soccer. Mickey kicking the ball at the goal again and again, Ian catching it again and again. It's unfair really, what with Ian's giraffe limbs, there's no way Mickey can get a shot past him. But it isn't easy for Ian either, because with every shot, Mickey's angles are getting better and better, and it's getting harder for him to stop the ball. And _fuck_ , it's so warm. He feels the sweat on his skin and without a shirt on, he probably looks like a fucking mess but Mickey's thinking the opposite, momentarily distracted when Ian runs a hand over his sweaty torso, almost losing his focus.

He shakes himself out of it. _Friends_ , he tells himself when Ian slings a bare arm around him as they head for the locker rooms. _Friends_. Ian gives his side a firm squeeze before he pulls away. _Just friends._

“Hey Mick, can you see my dick through these shorts?”

Fuck it.

Mickey slams Ian against the nearest locker, a sharp gasp leaving his lips as his back hits the cool metal.

“You are _such_ a fucking pain, you know that?” Mickey says, his hands trying to grasp at Ian's shirt but there's nothing there and he's left with sweaty skin, warm under his touch.

“Wha-”

“I'm just here, trying to be your friend,” he goes on, sounding a little out of breath. “But you're making it really hard for me when you're constantly staring at my ass, and saying those- those fucking _things_ , and doing all kinds of weird shit.”

Ian opens his mouth, but Mickey cuts him off before he even speaks.

“And you just- you're confusing me, man,” he whines, looking up at Ian with these desperate blue eyes. “One second you're calling me your ‘bro’, then you're showing up in these fucking booty shorts and- _Fuck_.”

“What's your point, Mickey?” Ian asks bluntly, unfazed by the fact that there's this tiny boy digging his hands into his bare skin.

“My point is,” Mickey breathes out, slow and deep. “I want you to fuck me.”

And suddenly it's so quiet, only the sound of their breaths in the empty room and Mickey waits for it. He waits for Ian to laugh at him, to shove him off and tell him he's being a fucking idiot. But it doesn't happen.

Instead, Ian sighs, muttering, “About fucking time.”

“ _What?_ ”

Ian smiles sweetly, gently lifting one of Mickey's hands from his shoulder and he brings it down to his crotch, pressing Mickey's palm against himself and Mickey sucks in a sharp breath, Ian's cock growing hard under his touch. Then, he flips them over — _hard_ , a loud bang echoing through the room as Mickey presses up against the metal doors, his hand still on Ian's crotch.

“I've wanted to fuck you since the day that we met,” Ian says, not wasting any time at all as he leans down to press open kisses on Mickey's neck. “But I couldn't exactly say ‘hey, let's fuck’, right?”

“So, you just...” Mickey breathes weakly, feeling Ian suck on his pulse point. “Pretended to be my friend, so you could-” Ian nips at his skin. “ _Jesus_. Seduce me?”

Ian stops, looking up at him with wide eyes and he says, “No, I wanted to be your friend. I like being your friend. I like _you_.”

Mickey's lips part, unsure what to say so he settles for, “I like you too.”

Ian smiles for a moment, then goes back to trailing kisses across Mickey's collarbones, mumbling between soft pecks. “But I wasn't sure if you were into guys – _you never told me_ – so I had to settle for sending you the right signals. Obviously-” Ian bites him again, quickly licking at the spot to soothe his skin. “They worked.”

“So you're saying,” Mickey huffs, his grip on Ian's cock tightening. “If I told you I was gay from the start, we could've fucked a long time ago?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, let's make up for lost time,” Mickey says, a dashing smirk on his lips as his free hand curls around Ian's neck, pulling him in for a kiss and _fuck_. Are lips allowed to be that soft?

Mickey's lips are probably chapped and gross but Ian's are smooth and he tastes like mint when Mickey slides his tongue between them, licking around in his mouth. Mickey's hand goes from Ian's crotch to the waistband of his shorts, tugging them down and they come off so easily, Mickey almost cries. Ian doesn't waste any time in getting Mickey's clothes off too, their kiss breaking for a second as he yanks Mickey's shirt off, muttering, “Stupid fucking shirt.”

They're rougher when their lips meet again, all hungry bites and desperate licks, sucking on each other like oxygen. Ian presses his tongue in deeper, his hands reaching behind Mickey's thighs and he lifts him up, Mickey's strong legs wrapping around his waist immediately. Ian pulls away, holding up his fingers for Mickey to suck and he does, slicking up Ian's long fingers. Ian fights the urge to call him a good boy. Ian's hand finds its way between Mickey's legs, fingertips tracing his rim slowly.

“Can I?”

“Fuck, yes.”

Ian presses his finger inside, then another, feeling Mickey open up for him, and he almost shudders. He's hesitant, because Mickey's so fucking tight, but he adds another finger, stretching them out slowly.

“Jesus, Ian, I'm not a fucking vase,” Mickey groans, nails digging into Ian's skin. “Just fuck me already.”

And that's all Ian needs, his fingers slipping out and he grabs his cock, spreading his pre-cum all over himself and he lines himself up with Mickey's hole, the head of his dick pressing in. Mickey's eager, trying to push himself down on Ian but Ian's got a firm hold on him, keeping him in place and he whines, high and loud.

“Ian, please. I'm _begging_ you.”

Fuck. Okay. Ian breathes out, thrusting his crotch up and he gasps when he slides into Mickey, taking all of him at once. Mickey's tight and warm, stretching around Ian's cock and it's the hottest thing Ian's ever felt. He lets Mickey adjust, but when Mickey begins to squirm, he pulls out and thrusts back in so hard that Mickey has to hold on the lockers to keep himself up. And Ian doesn't stop, pounding into Mickey's ass at all the right angles and Ian leans in to kiss him again, because he's so pretty when he's being fucked, his skin shining with sweat and his eyes blown out and-

“Fuck,” Mickey groans, head leaning back against the lockers. “Right there.”

Ian pulls out slowly, then he slams back in, right into Mickey's spot and he does it again and again, his free hand pumping Mickey's cock in the same beat. And Mickey's head is starting to spin, the noises he's making becoming completely obscene as he feels heat pooling in his stomach.

“Ian, fuck, I'm almost- I'm-”

He explodes, white strings shooting out onto Ian's chest and he grinds down on Ian's cock with what little strength he had left, feeling Ian come inside him. When they can breath again, Ian pulls out of him, laying him down on the bench and he collapses on top of Mickey, too exhausted to even care about the drying cum on them.

“So,” Mickey says, feeling their cocks trapped between their sticky bodies. “Are we a thing or is this what ‘just best friends’ do?”

“I hate you,” Ian groans, letting his head fall onto Mickey's chest.

“No, you don't,” Mickey chimes from under him, sounding awfully gleeful.

Ian doesn't say it out loud but, _no, I don't._

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments and kudos are always appreciated! If you have any prompts/requests for me, go ahead and leave them at my [twitter](https://twitter.com/giamoroustyies) or [tumblr](http://gasolineharry.tumblr.com/ask) :)


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